


Of Lambs And Rats

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Series: Bioshock: Measurement of A Father [15]
Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: BioShock References, BioShock Spoilers, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Mild Language, Rapture (BioShock)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 19:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Stanley bites the bullet and goes to see Lamb for possibly a little relief from his guilt.





	Of Lambs And Rats

Swallowing his pride, Stanley showed his press pass to the guard, his hand shaking slightly.

To which the fellow told him to watch himself. Stanley nodded, with a word of thanks, heading on in.

He was there to see Miss Lamb.

No more, no less.

His notebook and his pen both tucked in his pocket, he took in a breath and asked for access to the ever-forbidden high-security block for activists like Lamb. A special place for some of the other big-boss types that scared Ryan, too, if they weren't so slippery.

He removed the blue origami butterfly pin on his chest and tucked it away, anxious about parading it around—even if only to earn the doc’s trust.

Under the prison lights, it sort of... _glowed_.

She was in a cell—not just _any_ cell, a big, well-lit cell, no bars, just thick glass. And twenty-four hour surveillance.

Stanley could only wonder who she had to bribe to get the VIP room.

It had a desk, papers, books, and all over the walls, there was... fan mail? Drawings? Butterfly motifs?

He asked the guard if he could enter—the guard hesitated. Stanley flashed his pass briefly, putting on the quintessential _hard man_ act.

Stanley was let in, he put the little butterfly back on his lapel and cleared his throat, glancing at the audience of vigilant guards, watching his every move.

“Miss Lamb?” He said lightly.

He heard a lighter flick. _Jesus, they’re letting her have fire?_

“Yes, Stanley?” She said smoothly, she looked back, blinking her pale, sharp eyes at him.

“I’m here for an _interview_.” He said.

Her eyes drew to his lapel pin. She turned in her seat, closing her eyes to take a drag on her cigarette. “What are you looking to know, Stanley?” She asked, staring at him.

Stanley gulped, his mouth dry. “May I—uh—sit?”

“Of course,” she waved him toward to a cushioned lounge chair, suspiciously similar to the therapy types.

Stanley took his seat, Sofia continued to look at him. “What brings you here, Stanley?” She said suddenly as she stared intently at the paper butterfly. She leaned back in the swivel chair—unsettlingly relaxed.

Stanley flipped his notebook open out of principal. “I need help.”

“I will lend it to you.” Her ever-tranquil smile made Stanley a little uncomfortable. “What is it?”

“So... I’ve done things.” He started out. He stammered a little.

“I see,” Sofia nodded. “Take your time.”

“I—I hurt people, I’m... I didn’t intend on coming here for some interview, Lamb, people... _whisper_ , you know? And I put people away, for good because of whispering...”

Sofia remained clerical, and calm. “Nobody is irredeemable,” Her hand snuck onto his. “Anyone can contribute.”

“Can they? Really?” Stanley said unevenly.

He noted that her fingers were soft, but her nails were long, sharp, dangerous. She, herself, was dangerous.

“Close your eyes, Stanley, and tell me more.” She urged, “there is no judgement.”

Before he realised it, his eyes closed, and he breathed.

But then he lost his train of thought—it derailed, simply by the force of her saintlike patience.

He could see why Ryan wanted her out of the picture—she was an idol to the insidiousness of Altruism, or whatever Ryan would say. He was always quite the master of metaphors.

But Stanley could not focus. She was already beginning to needle into his head.

He snapped his bruised eyes open.

“You know, Lamb, I know you’re just saying pretty things to hide the fact that you know a lot more than you’re letting on.” He simpered halfway up at her.

“Appropriate, since you are giving me the same impression. You came to us, a distraught writer—frustrated by Ryan. What have you done with that opportunity, I wonder.” Her thin lips gave an odd, disconcerting little smile.

Stanley wanted so badly to weasel out of her suddenly-all-too-invasive therapy. “I’m s-still working, Doc—doing my best, and your... family’s lost without you.”

“I know,” she said, but without a touch of anything Stanley could recognise as worry, “but you are as much a member of the family as they are, Stanley. You seem quite well-directed, however.”

Her eyes sent a bolt of terror into Stanley—like she was looking right through him.

The room was too quiet. And Lamb was nearing too close to home.

“You chose to seek me out.” She reminded him. “Of your own initiative.”

“Yeah—yeah I did.” Stanley said.

“Thus, my message to you—and listen well—is that _the butterfly has taken wing_. Relay it.” 

He had no intention of relaying it.

But the certainty in her voice, and the absolute—possibly false—trust she was putting in him, pushed him.

The atmosphere about her was warm, choking Stanley with its bountiful... _tenderness_?

The all-enveloping feeling it gave would usually put others at peace—instead, it had Stanley on edge.

_She knows, she goddamn knows. And she’s testing me._

He swore aloud—under his breath—and she looked at him, scolding him with those pinprick eyes.

“I—I...” Stanley breathed uneasily, “y-yes ma’am.” He said, almost suffocating in his nerves.

“We stand with you—the Rapture family. Your sins, your transgressions, they will wash away, if you would only let them.”

Under her icy gaze, he shrunk, his voice coming out in a quaver, “what are you playing at, doc?”

She was sinisterly finding her way deeper into his soul. Her hand turned heavy on his—he wriggled his arm away from her.

“I know _you_ are the Judas.” Stanley bristled fearfully, Lamb continued. “But my mission is not to _exclude_ the wrongdoer—but redirect his path.”

Stanley’s mind rang with a chorus of various profanities—unable to choose which one he wanted to scream into the void.

But it translated well through his eyes—wide, rapid blinking, and sweat forming on his brows.

“The Family is here in Persephone, I urge you to choose wisely, Stanley.”

Stanley swallowed. “And if I don’t?”

“Is that a possibility you want to chance?” She asked, still tranquil, beaming at him as if she _wasn’t_ practically making Stanley to piss himself in terror.

She leaned back. “Simply, if you do not... I will send the signal myself, they have already prepared, and lie in wait. I ask you, because you’re convenient and—if you are willing to be—a valuable family member.” She steepled her fingers. “You do not want to be my enemy. I may forgive, but the Family may not be as... accommodating. Make your choice, Stanley. Or continue your role as the son of perdition—and be treated as such.”

Stanley looked to the guards helplessly—he’d forgotten they were there. He had not been writing, but proceeded to busy his hand with scribblings. Just trying to keep his head about him. Keep himself from getting dragged down.

_Breathe, man. Breathe. She’s just a shrink._

She glanced at the paper. “You are a pitiful being, Stanley. A creature of whims and earthly, carnal greed... even an organism such as yourself can find fulfilment in unity.” She was still trying to win him over.

Stanley’s patience, and nerves quietly ran thin. Then became non-existent.

“I’m not looking for unity, Lamb.” He said, meekly but venomously. He stood up, closing his notebook. “I’m sorry.” He found himself saying.

“I see you’ve made your choice, Stanley.” She said, her smile was ever present. But her eyes seemed to shine with hurt, just enough for him to freeze in place mid-step back.

“Yeah, I have.”

 

* * *

 

Stanley left the room quite shaken, the guards escorted him out, Stanley hoped to God that they would not notice.

His notebook was full of bits and pieces of the Doc’s words of wisdom.

 _The butterfly has taken flight_ , Stanley was left to wonder what she meant, what the _butterfly_ represented—or what _taking flight_ meant, for that matter.

But he understood a few odds and ends—he knew that people would die for her ideology.

And she was fine with it. They were fine with it.

This was something Ryan had to know, but he found himself hesitating.

Not because he felt bad—no, this was commonplace. Backstabbing was a journalistic tactic. But there were still some things he couldn’t let come to light.

And it remained quite the risk, he had still bottled up so much, and thanks to Lamb, he had more to cover up. Who knew when and where he’d blow it.

She knew more than he’d thought—luckily, though, she didn’t know about certain things. She didn’t know about his more heinous fuckups.

But goddamn if people hadn’t been whispering, he’d be able to rest easy—but Eleanor’s vanishment was still fresh in the Family’s minds.

Maybe he could... seed another rumour that didn’t link him to it? Maybe about miss Holloway—she was Eleanor’s caretaker, right?

Or perhaps he could find the god _damn_ girl _himself_ , play the hero—she couldn’t have gone far in the orphanage, could she?

His hands were tied, people had to be dealt with, he would prefer not to make it a whole spectacle. But if it did turn into one, then... it is what it is.

_Nobody can know._

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — Stanley intended on using Lamb as a sort of confessional, but she’d managed to talk him into a corner.
> 
> — His current plan isn’t to drown all of Dionysus Park, but to work behind the scenes—of course, knowing Stanley, things never go according to plan.


End file.
